Today Nikki accompanied me to work for a lunch/fundraiser my squadron was sponsoring. She later commented about the unusual amount of men growing facial hair (mustaches to be exact). I explained that it is all part of “March Madness.” The tradition being that one grows a mustache and awards are given out at the end of the month to individuals with the best this-or-that growth.
She simply replied, “Oh.” Then asked, “So are you going to try and grow one?” At which point she burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which I am sure woke at least one of our sleeping children.
Now, it’s not really my fault I can’t grow decent-looking facial hair (I blame it on being one small part Native American). Besides, I remind myself that Photoshop has helped me come to terms with the fact that even had I the ability to grow hair at the manliest rate possible, doing so would only make me look like a feral gerbil had taken up residence immediately below my nose.
Instead of communicating any of this to my loving wife (who at this point was still trembling enough from fits of laughter that she was very obviously trying to keep from peeing herself), I simply sighed and left it at that. After all, I had rather expected some such reaction from her, and considered myself fortunate that while she was on the subject of hair she didn’t take the opportunity to poke fun (as she often does) at the fact that my hairline is slowly receding. Yes, my hair is going the way of the dinosaur; retreating into the ether, never to be seen from again. Dinosaurs – no one is sure what happened to them, why they left, or how many there were to begin with (in fact, some people refuse to be convinced they ever existed at all). The only hard fact we have is that they are nowhere to be found now (unless you count some of their so-called “distant relatives,” but that’s like saying the increased growth in nose and ear hair we men get as we age makes up in some way for the lack of it up on top).
The bright side, and moral, of this story is that I have a wife to laugh at me. You see, she will not leave me for lack of hair. Nevertheless, I remain unconvinced that she would have been interested enough to marry me were I already in this downward spiral of uncontrollable molting. Yes, young men of the world, get married now while you still have a mane worthy of actually paying a professional to cut. If you wait until the day you step off the barber’s chair and look down at your cuttings only to realize the removal of such an embarrassingly small mass isn’t worth the $10 plus tip you are about to fork over; well, it just might be too late.